The Good Thief

By Leo Furey

Set in and around St. John's, Newfoundland, in the late 1960s, The Good Thief is the story of eighteen-year-old Sonny McCluskey, the son of an eccentric father, a man on a mission. Like his hero, Robin Hood, Charlie McCluskey is hell-bent on justice for the poor, one day at a time.

Sonny’s father dies, leaving him the family business, a small auto repair shop, and a long-standing family secret, with a summary of his unique philosophy on how to make money and do good.

Sonny promises to uphold the family tradition, but the more he discovers about his father's checkered past, the more difficult it becomes to keep his promise. Despite his good intentions, Sonny is drawn further and further into a dangerous underworld, forcing him to face some life-changing challenges he could never have foreseen.

"Leo Furey’s The Good Thief is tension-charged, roaring with suspense. The plot runs like a speeding motorcycle on a twisting road. A cast of characters so rich and crusty and deep, you’ll never forget them. Romance and bravery, criminal hijinks and high moral stakes, tender filial love, and a hunger for spiritual truth, all crashing up against rampant greed. Here are sticky fingers—pick this book up, you won’t be able to put it down.” — Lisa Moore

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flanker Press
• Release date: Apr 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781774570371

Leo Furey

Leo Furey is a writer from St. John’s, Newfoundland. His first novel, The Long Run, was a 2004 Globe and Mail Best Book and was chosen by Barnes and Noble for their prestigious 2007 Discover Great New Writers Seasonal Picks. The Long Run received excellent reviews in various newspapers and literary journals across Canada and was on several bestseller lists. In the US, the novel received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist. Furey’s short stories, reviews, and journalism have been published in several literary magazines, including the Newfoundland Quarterly, Tickleace, the Antigonish Review, the Nashwaak Review, the Fiddlehead, and the Walrus. He is founder of Broken Earth Productions, a theatre company that raises money for Broken Earth (brokenearth.ca), a non-profit group of Canadian health care individuals providing medical assistance to earthquake victims.

Book preview

Cover: The Good Thief, a novel, by Leo Furey. A close up crop of a vintage Canadian 20 dollar bill, showing the right had side, splt down the middle, the Queen is looking slyly over her left shoulder.Cover: The Good Thief, a novel, by Leo Furey. A close up crop of a vintage Canadian 20 dollar bill, showing the right had side, splt down the middle, the Queen is looking slyly over her left shoulder.

Contents

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

---

AUGUST 1967 - Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

---

SEPTEMBER - Part II

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

---

OCTOBER - Part III

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

---

NOVEMBER - Part IV

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

---

DECEMBER - Part V

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

---

JANUARY 1968 - Part VI

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Acknowledgements

About the Author

---

Also By Leo Furey

The Long Run

Leo Furey

The Good Thief

A Novel

Flanker Press Limited

St. John’s

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: The good thief : a novel / Leo Furey.

Names: Furey, Leo, author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220181284 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220181292 | ISBN 9781774570364

(softcover) | ISBN 9781774570371 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781774570395 (PDF)

Classification: LCC PS8611.U73 G66 2022 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

—————————————————————————————— —— — — — — — — — —————————————————

© 2022 by Leo Furey

all rights reserved.

No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well. For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll-free to 1-800-893-5777.

Printed in Canada

Cover Design by Graham Blair

Flanker Press Ltd.

1243 Kenmount Road, Unit 1

Paradise, NL

Canada

Telephone: [phone] Fax: [phone] Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420

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9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Logos recognizing government funding, from left to right, Government of Canada, Canada Council for the Arts, Government of Newfoundland and Labrador.

We acknowledge the [financial] support of the Government of Canada.

Nous reconnaissons l’appui [financier] du gouvernement du Canada.

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country.

Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing activities.

Dedication

To the memory of George Sanderson

March 21, 1935 – November 4, 2005

AUGUST 1967

I

I was a son to my father . . .

And he taught me and said to me,

Let your heart hold fast my words . . .

— Proverbs

1

My father has decided to kill himself. And he wants me to put him in the ground. No funeral home, no undertaker, no clergy. Only you, me, and Mother Earth, Sonny. Nobody else. And he has his reasons, one of which is to protect me.

He doesn’t really believe taking his life is suicide. But I do. I mean, what else do you call taking a pill that’ll prevent you from ever waking up again? He’s determined to cross the river, as he calls it, because his number’s up.

We all gotta go sometime, he says. I’m one of the lucky ones. He lights a smoke, squints at the flame. He chain-smokes unfiltered Camel cigarettes. I know my time’s come. And it’s your time to help out.

We’ve been arguing about this for months now. He says he needs help to do the deed. I don’t want any part of it, but whenever we’re working in the garage, he brings it up. We live in Portugal Cove, or the Cove, as everyone calls it, about eight miles from St. John’s. He runs a small garage called Charlie’s Auto. He loves the name, insists I always call him Charlie, never Dad—even when I was a child, in private and in public. Everyone calls him Charlie. Charlie the mechanic can put an arse in a cat.

He swipes at a trail of cigarette smoke, points the torque wrench at me, then at the yellowing photograph of my mother, one arm around me, the other snugging a napkin up to my chin as I blow out the candles on my fifth birthday. In the photo it’s hard to tell where my mother’s long pale hair ends and mine begins.

A wheezy chuckle and Charlie lifts his greasy baseball cap, looks away. Your mother was alive she’d want you to call her Lucy. He rarely talks about my mother. I guess he has his reasons. Charlie always has his reasons. Never mentions how she died. Too difficult to talk about, so I let it rest. But whenever her name comes up, I ask about her. His answer is always the same: Lucy was like God—slow to anger, rich in kindness.

My father glances at the photograph. Were she alive, Lucy’d agree with what I’m doin’. ‘Why leave it to an undertaker?’ she’d say. ‘Someone you don’t know.’ Hell, she’d be there with the shovel. He rants about the terrible falling-out he had with Lucy’s priest, Father McCarthy, who refused to put his name on the burial plot in Mount Carmel Cemetery. Powers and principalities! He’s angry enough to spit in his soup. We’ll see who gets buried where, Father Almighty McCarthy! Crooked as sin, he is. The stupidity of it! We’ll see who gets buried where.

Charlie, you can’t do this. It’s too risky. I say my piece and wait. Nothing. It’s a public graveyard, for God’s sake.

A derisive snort, then a long silence, different than usual, testing. He bemoans yet again Father McCarthy’s refusal to let a Protestant be buried in a Catholic cemetery. Not like there isn’t precedent. He hesitates, glances around: tools, brake and bumper parts of a Chevy truck litter the floor. He snatches a heater gasket from the workbench. Eighteen-hundreds, the poor Catholics used to sneak into the Anglican cemetery downtown and bury their dead. All that space outside the Anglican church? Dead Catholics! The corners of his mouth turn down. If the micks can do it . . .

Charlie, you can’t do this. You—

Oh, I’m gonna do it! His voice quavers. Gonna be with my Lucy, and that’s that. He turns away, says she wanted them to be together. He’s grown frailer lately, thinner, his brows forever wincing in pain. Need your help, son. Not asking you to shoot me, like some old horse with a broken leg. Just supervise the thing, that’s all.

I hate being talked at but can’t bear the thought of him gone.

Be my acolyte. Just— He coughs, spits. Every wash, you lose a sock.

He’s all head about it, I’m all heart. Sometimes we go days without a word to each other. Furtive glances exchanged, polite grunts in the shop. His way of sticking to his guns. For a religious man it’s amazing he doesn’t see it for what it is. Respecting his belief isn’t easy.

He leans forward, his head over his hands—palm to palm—as if in prayer. "Moses wandering in the desert said to God, ‘Kill me now, please, it’ll be a kindness.’ And Jesus knew why and where He’d die, knew it all. Knew where they’d come for Him—the day, the hour. Even knew how it was gonna happen. Public execution! Capital punishment! Could’ve chosen to stop it. He didn’t."

Charlie, you know I don’t agree with some of your religious notions—

"I’m in the same boat. Hallelujah! I know how and why and where. Simple matter of when—and the clock’s tickin’. I’m no fool, son. I know what spitting up blood all the time means. Don’t need a doc to tell me what’s coming."

He sighs, looks out the window at Johnny Fabrella mowing the lawn, red hair blowing in the wind. There’s a light in his face every time he sees Johnny. Vietnam will be the death of him. Useless war!

He doesn’t have to go, I say. It’s his choice.

He gives me an angry shrug.

Johnny’s not earning his pay. He’s never in the garage, and when he does come, he quits early. He’s a quitter, a school dropout.

So am I. Another dismissive shrug, a wince of disgust. Make sure he never finds out about the print shop—Rosie. He gets up, waves to Johnny to stop mowing and come inside. Garage door’s always locked, so Johnny knocks. Charlie lets him in, throws out his arms, and hugs him. My handsome Johnny! And why not? Your mother was beautiful. He opens his wallet. Here’s a sawbuck. Need any more?

P-plenty, Charlie, th-thanks. Johnny stutters when he’s nervous.

Charlie smiles. More where that came from.

Johnny reaches in his pocket, hands him back five. Plenty, Charlie.

Charlie laughs, says keep it.

Johnny lived in New York till he was ten. His parents died and he returned to the Cove to live with his deadbeat uncle. Charlie took him under his wing, treated him like a son. Johnny practically lived at our house. We were raised like brothers. Arlene thinks we even look alike, which is funny because Johnny’s the spit of Arlene; they’re cousins, after all.

When he was little, Johnny swallowed antifreeze. He thought it was syrup, almost died. Charlie was by his hospital bed all night. He still feels guilty about leaving the antifreeze around and favours Johnny as a result.

Gotta run, band practice, Johnny says. He’d rather be off playing the guitars Charlie buys him. He avoids the garage, doesn’t like grease and dirt, real work. When he does the odd job, he gives the money to hippies who always flop at his place. He’s too kind.

Before you go, Johnny, let’s go over the most important things about car maintenance.

Good luck, I want to say. He’s been teaching him that for years.

Change the oil regularly. What else?

Check the battery, Johnny says.

Good! Good! Come here, did I show you how to recognize worn-out brake pads?

Yes.

Can you replace this spark plug?

Think so. I’ll try.

Just don’t put it up your ass.

We laugh.

That’s what I’ll miss most about him—his humour. And his patience. Just having him around the shop, his being here. He taught me to look at a problem and not be in a hurry. When your mother and I picked tobacco, she’d always say, ‘More hurry, less speed.’

It gives me a special confidence when I ask him why something isn’t working, something as simple as why a rusty bolt won’t loosen up after a heavy pounding. He’s so easygoing. He stares at the problem, muses for a while, gets his toolbox and a can of lubricant or something.

And I’ll miss waiting till he sticks his head out from under a car hood or slides out on his creeper and asks, What’s up?

Replace them every 70,000 miles, he tells Johnny and reminds him how to recognize a burnt-out plug. Johnny smiles, nods, but he won’t remember anything. His mind’s on one thing, guitars.

Charlie finishes up, and Johnny says he’s gotta run.

Stay for supper, Charlie says. We’ll cook our famous lasagna. They’re both wonderful cooks, and we have some great meals together.

Gotta run, Charlie, band practice. Let’s cook up a storm Friday night.

That means Johnny will make a special dessert. I wave goodbye, remind him of the oil changes he forgot to do.

Sheez! Sorry, little brother. He always calls me little brother, the brother he never had. I’ll come back later. Promise.

Never mind, Johnny, I’ll do it. I know he won’t be back.

‘Little brother,’ he says. This is a holy moment. One of Charlie’s expressions.

When he’s gone, Charlie says I shouldn’t badger him about garage work. He’s a musician, has the divine impulse, let him do it on his own time.

He’s never here, Charlie, I do all his work. I think of my great-grandfather, David McCluskey, who started Charlie’s Auto. What would he say about a slacker working in the garage? There are deadlines, Charlie. People expect their cars back on time.

Another shrug. When I’m gone, give him full-time work, but don’t badger him. You know anyone as thoughtful as that young man? He practically runs a soup kitchen at his place.

You mean flophouse.

And he’s a sensitive soul, gets anxious, depressed sometimes—

I’ll give him a paycheque, but I won’t expect much. He’s not a mechanic, Charlie. He hates grease, for God’s sake.

He’ll be fine over time. You shouldn’t be jealous. You’re my real son.

I’m not jealous.

Yeah, you are. He grits his teeth in that stubborn way he has.

I’m really pissed off with him, so I let it go. I hate arguing about Johnny, who, as I say, couldn’t care less about fixing cars. He thinks a car is a tin can with wheels and a motor. I’m never happier than when I’m in the garage, rolling up my sleeves, and getting down and dirty with an engine. I’m going to be the best mechanic in town. Why not? I’ve had a great teacher.

Johnny’s come a long way. He’s a talented musician and very modest. I’m proud of him. You should be too . . .

He’s talking at me again. It’s unnerving. He’ll go on and on, and I’m frustrated to no end, so I mention an important date with a girl in my class, gotta go.

Is it that Arlene gal? From the Trades School?

Yeah, she’s in my mechanics class.

You know her father’s driving me crazy trying to amalgamate the two garages. Not gonna happen, but he won’t give up. Old White would use his own mother if he could. Wouldn’t put anything past him. Watch your bobber, son. Don’t let her do Old Man White’s bidding.

I’d never let anything happen to Charlie’s Auto. I’d never—

"I like that gal. A bright spark. Not afraid to get her hands dirty or speak her mind. Reminds me of her Aunt Laura, who was one tough muchacha. Laura! he exclaims, his voice high, amused. Those eyes!"

We argue again about the burial. What if I get caught? It’s Mount Carmel Cemetery, for God’s sake, it’s on a hill.

Get caught? A triumphant cackle. Nobody hangs around graveyards late at night. We’ll do it after midnight. We’ll go over there tomorrow and case the joint, see where to park and all. Don’t worry, we’ll rehearse.

And what about when you’re gone? The death certificate. What am I gonna say happened to you? There’s a million details. There’s the—

All in good time. I’ve figured everything out. You’ll be eighteen end of the month, almost a man. He pauses and looks at me kindly. A real man. And sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

That crack in his voice again, can’t bear to listen; it breaks my heart. And I’ve already made up my mind—I’m not burying my father, no matter what kind of cockeyed logic he uses. I’m not taking that on, man or boy.

I remove my coveralls and head back to the house to clean up before meeting Arlene at Thelma’s Diner. I don’t want her to know about this madness. It’s our first official date, and I need to pull myself together.

Don’t forget, you promised to drive me to the hospital later.

I’ll be back, Charlie. I never forget a promise.

2

thelma’s is noisy, packed with students—

Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl blaring from the jukebox. Through a smog of blue smoke, I spot Randy Quinn’s unmistakable mop-top in a booth by a tall picture window, see his fingers tapping the table. He’s the drummer for Johnny Fabrella and the Acid Test. I wave. He’s next to his girlfriend, Esther-Marie. She sings background with Arlene, who plays keyboard. Esther-Marie’s short hair looks wet, as if she’s just come from the swimming pool. She’s on the local swim team—his third girlfriend this month. Quinn melts at the sight of a pretty face.

Arlene’s next to her cousin Johnny, whose facial features are soft, like Arlene’s. With his shoulder-length, fiery red hair, they could pass for sisters. Like me, Johnny has a dimple on his chin, wide lips. He looks uptight, Vietnam’s on his mind. He’s an American citizen and could hear from Uncle Sam any day.

Everyone wants a music career. Esther-Marie wants to study music at McGill. Arlene’s performing on the CBC’s Young Talent and wants to cut a record.

Johnny’s got the best shot at making it. He’s the lead singer, bops around the stage like Mick Jagger, plays a mean guitar. Everyone loves Johnny Fabrella and the Acid Test. They sell out every concert.

Through the smoky din, loud knocking, ringing bells from the pinball machines, I grab a chair, sit at the booth. Quinn flashes a peace sign beneath his rabbity grin. You’re late, McCluskey. Fighting with your ol’ man again?

Workin’ at the garage, had to shower. Better late than ugly.

The girls laugh. Esther-Marie has stained teeth.

Hi, Sonny! A slight caving in my stomach as Arlene pushes back her hair. She’s wearing a faded Beatles T-shirt, loose and comfortable, her café racer leather jacket. She adores her racer bike, beautifully finished in metallic magenta with black accents, white pinstripes on the fuel tank.

Ha! Quinn says, stroking his wispy goatee. Up all night thinkin’ of that one, McCluskey? His green irises are weepy-looking. I swear to God, if his ears were floppy, he’d be a dead ringer for a rabbit.

Behind the cash register, a yellowed cut-out of Thelma in her diner-girl uniform: Best Home Cookin’ in Newfoundland.

You missed hoops this morning, Quinn says. Too tired for basketball?

From the rowdy haze, a nasal drone takes our orders: Cokes, hamburgers, fish and chips.

Johnny asks if I’ve checked out the stage for our next gig, the Pot Park Concert.

Not yet, the weekend.

Arlene says, I’ll take you for a spin on my new racer. Our eye contact is electric, her eyes like my mother’s, caramel brown.

I manage the band, booking venues, transporting equipment, that sort of thing. Johnny negotiates contracts, resolves conflicts. He’s really in charge.

Quinn goes through the concert set list, suggests they make some songs unique. Johnny says he’s writing new lyrics, recommends variations of songs, the tempo, chord variations. Writing a protest song, Johnny g-got his g-gun. He stretches far back in his chair, hands behind his head. He’s an imposing figure, over six feet, prominent Adam’s apple and that long red hair, bright blue eyes. He wears a rawhide jacket, headband, jeans except when he’s playing a gig. He has flamboyant outfits for performing. Everyone calls him Handsome Johnny, and all the girls in the Cove are crazy about him. Oooo! Johnny Fabrella—Lady Killah. Oooo! Fu Manchella, pretty cool fella . . . Oooo! Oooo! Hollywood Handsome Johnny. Oooo!The Acid Test’s playing at Butter Pot Park . . . Oooo! Johnny Fabrella’s an American. Oooo! From New York. Oooo! Oooo! Might get drafted . . . A-Ahhh!

Can we try some songs in a different key? Esther-Marie asks. Do something original to get into the melodies? Buffalo Springfield—

G-great idea, Johnny says, next practice. A knotty guitar riff between the lyrics. Flex our musical muscles.

And we could do the Joni Mitchell song differently, Arlene says, experiment with the rhythm, maybe, change the tempo.

Make it a soul anthem, Johnny says.

Quinn says, So it sounds like anyone but Joni Mitchell.

Everyone wants fame except me. I just want my own garage, the simple life. Unlike Quinn, who says if he doesn’t make it as a drummer, he’ll be a cop, just like his old man. His father’s a detective, and Quinn fancies himself one. He’s always reporting something or other to the school principal. He’s famous at school for ratting on people. But I don’t razz him. It takes all kinds.

If we had brass, Esther-Marie says, we could slip in a little Satchmo. Too bad Sonny doesn’t play—

I do.

What?

The radio.

Ha, ha, Esther-Marie says. I saw a great movie last night.

Why’s it take so long for a flick to come here? Quinn says. It’s 1967. Spaghetti western in town was made years ago.

Esther-Marie says she loved Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Arlene says they’ll never make a better movie than A Man for All Seasons.

"Bo-ring!" Esther-Marie says.

No, really, it’s a great flick, Arlene says.

The waitress, not much older than I am, arrives with an armload of plates: Quinn grabs a hamburger, chomps. That movie’s crap, he says, a dab of ketchup on his chin. "In Cold Blood, now there’s a great flick. My father and I saw it last week."

I catch Arlene’s eyes for a fraction of a second. I’d like to see that movie you mentioned.

I plan on going again. She winks, pulse beating in her neck as she stares at Quinn.

"Serves them right! That’s what they get for electing Johnson." Mr. Crenshaw’s voice booms as he and his wife enter the diner, a harsh British accent that you usually hear before seeing him. He teaches mechanics at the Trades School. His nickname is Comrade Crenshaw—his first name was James, but he changed it years ago to Vladimir when he became a Marxist. He likes his friends to call him Vlad and insists Charlie always call him that. Eccentric? Yes. And so is his wife.

Mr. Crenshaw nods toward the cash register. Take our orders, please, darling. The usual, extra rashers, leaner the better. But you know me, darling, I never complain.

His wife calls out their order as they move toward our table. Quinn cringes. He hates Crenshaw. And Crenshaw hates him and his father. Detective Quinn once interrogated Crenshaw about using drugs. Quinn’s the only student Crenshaw ever failed.

Crenshaw’s a big, middle-aged man in his fifties, a bit stoop-shouldered, with a massive, shoulder-length mane of hair, shovel-shaped beard. Broad, defiant face, large nose that looks like it was broken at one time. His bushy eyebrows hover above alert, close-set eyes and thick, black-rimmed glasses. He dresses formally, always the same, double-breasted suit or sports coat.

He flashes a peace sign, grins, and I glimpse broken teeth. You all know my wife, Flo.

Which one got the A plus? She glances at Johnny with her ferrety, black eyes—framed by a sexy pageboy haircut—then probes my face, her lively eyes challenging mine.

That’d be me, I say, my face getting hot.

She tilts her head to the side, narrows her eyes. Your father’s a saint, Sonny.

Mother Teresa of the Cove, Johnny says. He gives a peace sign.

Crenshaw snickers. When I was little, I’d hear him arguing with my father in the garage—first I heard the word communism. Crenshaw claims he went to Oxford, always signs his name with Ph.D., but Billy Ferguson, the director of admissions’s son, says that’s BS, that he attended Oxford but was expelled for drug dealing. But his wife has a Ph.D. in physical education, Ferguson says, from the States.

Tea, Vladdy? his wife asks. The tendons in her slender neck look strained. She’s dark-skinned, looks Spanish.

Of course, darling, he says, slicking his hair back with his hand. Mrs. Crenshaw teaches physical education at the university. She’s a bodybuilder, coaches the men’s wrestling team at school. She dresses simply, always in black, always wears a worn, full fur rabbit hat that her husband bought on a trip to Russia, her Moscow, she calls it. Often, she can be seen twisting it in her large, rough hands. Originally from New York, there’s a rumour she killed her first husband during a wrestling match. With those hands you can see how.

Sonny, there was a little problem with your last mechanics test. His tone is nasty. Come to my office Friday. A cynical twist of his mouth.

There’s nothing wrong with my test. He’s peeved with me for challenging him in class. He doesn’t like it when a student disagrees with him. Crenshaw turns to the others. Today’s test question, comrades: What precisely is the establishment? Answer, comrades: Powerful politicians who make laws, the media who control the airwaves, financiers who run the economy, and, of course, their puppets, the police, who enforce the rigged laws in favour of the rich. All in the same big happy bed. One rule for the poor, one for the rich, hmm. A poor bloke steals a candy bar, it’s jail time. A rich man filches millions, what happens? Nada, comrades. Not a thing. The rich get richer, comrades. Men of England, wherefore plough / For the Lords who lay ye low? The clothes you weave another wears . . .

Around the time of confederation with Canada, Crenshaw began teaching at the College of Trades and Technology, or, as everyone calls it, the Trades School. He teaches auto mechanics and the only academic elective available, history. When he was hired, instructors were poorly paid and hard to find. Mr. Crenshaw insisted his contract contain a clause stating that he’d teach world history each year. It’s really a course in communism. All Crenshaw ever talks about in class